Read Online Remo Went Rogue by Mike McCrary - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike McCrary
Ads: Link
in his rearview, not liking where this conversation is going. “Everything okay back there?”
Chicken Wing says, “We’re cool man. We’re actors. I’m running through a . . . what’s it fucking called? An improv. Isn’t my buddy here good? Looks scared, doesn’t he?”
The cab driver surveys them, says, “Yeah. You’re pretty good, bro.”
Remo’s growing tired of Chicken Wing’s bullshit, his little improv. “I don’t know what you want, but—”
“Nothing really. Just the fucking money you stole from us. That’s all. If you don’t get us that, then we’ll take your head. Your balls.”
Remo beats on the separation between him and the driver. “Stop the cab.”
The cab slows. Chicken Wing isn’t interested in ending their talk. He beats harder on the glass. “No, good sir, keep going, please.” He turns to Remo. “You can’t run away from this. You can try, but we’ll find you.” He flashes his .375.
“I didn’t do whatever you think I did.”
“No? Think about it good. Pretty sure you did.”
“I don’t have any of your money and I can’t control the legal system. The judge ruled—”
“The attitude is unnecessary, dude.”
Remo scrambles for something to say. “Okay, look. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’ve made mistakes.”
Chicken Wing squeezes Remo’s cheek, hard. “We’re the sum of our mistakes, right? Dutch always says that shit. Lester shouldn’t have come to you, and that bodyguard was unwelcome.” He lets go of Remo’s cheek with a slap, leaving an outline of his fingers a pinkish hue behind.
Lester?
Remo suddenly realizes Chicken Wing was the guy in the hoodie. Pictures Chicken Wing’s face with the bad beard and dark glasses, remembers the reckless violence. His memory is now crystal clear as he relives Lester spinning like a blood-soaked top on the floor of the Chinese joint.
Every part of Remo shakes.
The cabbie glances in the mirror again. “You really are pretty good.”
Remo’s eyes dart uncontrollably, scanning the streets.
What do I do?
The cab stops abruptly, inches from the bumper of a delivery truck, cabbie slapping the wheel in frustration.
Now or never.
Remo pushes the door open, exploding out into the street with arms and legs pumping like pistons firing. He pinballs through people crowding the streets but keeps moving, blocks passing in a blur. He reaches his apartment building in a balls-out sprint, flies through the lobby, and attacks the stairs two at a time all the way to his front door.
Pulling a leather duffel bag down from a shelf, he stuffs it like he was on the clock cleaning out a bank vault, cramming in items without any real thought or plan: socks, underwear, toothbrush, Q-tips…whatever he can find. He rifles through the closet yanking ten-grand-a-pop suits off hangers and tossing them aside like they were last summer’s Old Navy bargain graphic tees. He pulls down the last one, revealing a large safe in the wall.
Remo punches the code into the safe’s digital keypad and the door opens with a click.
Inside is a stack of cash. A nice stack of cash, sure, but nothing vaguely close to the 3.2 million the Mashburns are all hot and bothered about. Looks like a few grand, tops.
Remo pauses briefly. He takes a hard, thoughtful look at the blown out window from his recent gun experience. Yeah, that didn’t go well. But this is one of the situations where it’s better to be a well-armed idiot than an unarmed dead man. He yanks open his dresser drawer, grabs the Glock and stuffs it in the bag..
Remo rushes through the apartment building’s subterranean parking garage, duffle over his shoulder. Clothes peek out from the bulging, unzipped bag. He tosses the bag into the passenger seat as he falls in behind the wheel of his Mercedes CL600. Remo pushes the ignition button,
jams the shifter into D and speeds the hell outta there, the CL600 scraping the curb as it tears out of the garage.
Remo
Chicken Wing says, “We’re cool man. We’re actors. I’m running through a . . . what’s it fucking called? An improv. Isn’t my buddy here good? Looks scared, doesn’t he?”
The cab driver surveys them, says, “Yeah. You’re pretty good, bro.”
Remo’s growing tired of Chicken Wing’s bullshit, his little improv. “I don’t know what you want, but—”
“Nothing really. Just the fucking money you stole from us. That’s all. If you don’t get us that, then we’ll take your head. Your balls.”
Remo beats on the separation between him and the driver. “Stop the cab.”
The cab slows. Chicken Wing isn’t interested in ending their talk. He beats harder on the glass. “No, good sir, keep going, please.” He turns to Remo. “You can’t run away from this. You can try, but we’ll find you.” He flashes his .375.
“I didn’t do whatever you think I did.”
“No? Think about it good. Pretty sure you did.”
“I don’t have any of your money and I can’t control the legal system. The judge ruled—”
“The attitude is unnecessary, dude.”
Remo scrambles for something to say. “Okay, look. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I’ve made mistakes.”
Chicken Wing squeezes Remo’s cheek, hard. “We’re the sum of our mistakes, right? Dutch always says that shit. Lester shouldn’t have come to you, and that bodyguard was unwelcome.” He lets go of Remo’s cheek with a slap, leaving an outline of his fingers a pinkish hue behind.
Lester?
Remo suddenly realizes Chicken Wing was the guy in the hoodie. Pictures Chicken Wing’s face with the bad beard and dark glasses, remembers the reckless violence. His memory is now crystal clear as he relives Lester spinning like a blood-soaked top on the floor of the Chinese joint.
Every part of Remo shakes.
The cabbie glances in the mirror again. “You really are pretty good.”
Remo’s eyes dart uncontrollably, scanning the streets.
What do I do?
The cab stops abruptly, inches from the bumper of a delivery truck, cabbie slapping the wheel in frustration.
Now or never.
Remo pushes the door open, exploding out into the street with arms and legs pumping like pistons firing. He pinballs through people crowding the streets but keeps moving, blocks passing in a blur. He reaches his apartment building in a balls-out sprint, flies through the lobby, and attacks the stairs two at a time all the way to his front door.
Pulling a leather duffel bag down from a shelf, he stuffs it like he was on the clock cleaning out a bank vault, cramming in items without any real thought or plan: socks, underwear, toothbrush, Q-tips…whatever he can find. He rifles through the closet yanking ten-grand-a-pop suits off hangers and tossing them aside like they were last summer’s Old Navy bargain graphic tees. He pulls down the last one, revealing a large safe in the wall.
Remo punches the code into the safe’s digital keypad and the door opens with a click.
Inside is a stack of cash. A nice stack of cash, sure, but nothing vaguely close to the 3.2 million the Mashburns are all hot and bothered about. Looks like a few grand, tops.
Remo pauses briefly. He takes a hard, thoughtful look at the blown out window from his recent gun experience. Yeah, that didn’t go well. But this is one of the situations where it’s better to be a well-armed idiot than an unarmed dead man. He yanks open his dresser drawer, grabs the Glock and stuffs it in the bag..
Remo rushes through the apartment building’s subterranean parking garage, duffle over his shoulder. Clothes peek out from the bulging, unzipped bag. He tosses the bag into the passenger seat as he falls in behind the wheel of his Mercedes CL600. Remo pushes the ignition button,
jams the shifter into D and speeds the hell outta there, the CL600 scraping the curb as it tears out of the garage.
Remo
Similar Books
